


The Kissing Thing...

by ceylontea



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Post-Campaign 1 (Critical Role), Post-Canon, mention of gilmore and vax
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 21:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19237870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceylontea/pseuds/ceylontea
Summary: Grog was never one to examine his feelings. So when Gilmore suggested a quick make-out to throw the guards off their trail, his own response kind of took him by surprise.





	The Kissing Thing...

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from, but ever since Grog x Gilmore got into my mind I've been weirdly taken with it. I almost want to write a full length slow burn for how I imagine they'd get together (a while after the events of campaign one and the obvious grief over Vax have given them some distance). But considering there's not much interest in the ship, I'll leave it at this for now...

Grog and Gilmore lurched to the right and thundered down a dim alleyway. The guards on their tail were far behind now, lost on the main street. The clanging metal of their standard-issue armoured boots gave their position away, announced their approach to the men they perused.

“Grog! Here!” Gilmore called, spotting a shadowed alcove to the left.

Grog followed so easily it was almost impressive. An instinctual response—a mark of the trust they’d developed over the years. They squeezed close together, ready to wait for the danger to pass.

“We’re okay,” Gilmore said, voice thick with relief. “Sounds like they’re heading past.”

But, rather abruptly, the clanging boots doubled back. Came to the mouth of the long alley they’d just run down.

“Shit,” Gilmore hissed. “They’re actually smart.”

He looked more tousled than Grog had ever seen him. His breath was misting in the frosty air. The moonlight illuminated hair coming loose from its neat knot, curling against his temples with his sweat. His chest heaved. It glistened—very noticeable through the five buttons left open on his silken shirt—purple against deep brown skin, beads of sweat shimmering silver like fallen stars.

Grog remembered, suddenly, that Gilmore didn’t spend quite as much time as he did running through dark streets to escape the authorities. In fact, he wondered if Gilmore had ever done this outside of an actual battle before. Perhaps he should have gone slower…

“So, should we try the whole kissing disguise?” Gilmore asked, with the air of a seasoned expert.

It took Grog a moment to absorb the words.

“The what?”

“The disguise.”

“Disguise?”

“You know, _the kissing thing_ ,” Gilmore said, weighing the phrase with significance. He looked up at the goliath expectantly.

 “The kissing thing?” Grog felt even more slow than usual. That expression, coupled with that tone of voice, usually meant he was missing something obvious. He was beginning to think Gilmore had more experience running through the night than he’d expected. He clearly knew all the fancy terminology.

Gilmore glanced around the corner. The clashing sound of boots was slowly approaching—pausing often enough to duck into doorways and dead-end side-streets on the way.

“You know, Vax’s trick.” Gilmore whispered rapidly. “He taught it to me. This one night, we stole these fancy bottles of wine from… it doesn’t matter. Anyway, we almost got caught. But while we were running away, he showed me his trick to get out of trouble. Said you guys do it often enough…”

Grog blinked, still utterly lost. So Gilmore continued.

“The thing where you make out against the wall so the guards feel awkward about interrupting and assume you’ve been there a while, and they keep going past. You’ve never done that?”

“Never done that,” Grog confirmed.

Gilmore looked surprised. Then he shook his head, exasperated smile crossing his face.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Should have known it was an excuse to kiss me. That asshole.”

There was so much fondness in his voice, even Grog could tell he didn’t mean it as an insult. Besides, no one ever spoke of Vax with anything less than love. Not now.

“Well,” Gilmore turned back to him. “They’re almost here. Should we try it anyway, big guy? It did work, that night with Vax.”

“Oh.”

Grog had never kissed a guy he felt this close to. It had always been easier to stick to women (since he knew for sure he liked them), and mostly to strangers (since the feelings weren’t so confusing that way). But suddenly, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Gilmore.

The moon highlighted his cheekbones, picking up faint glitter that was either natural or a part of the sorcerer’s make-up. Grog didn’t know enough about make-up _or_ human biology to be sure. But Gilmore was the kind of guy who might literally sparkle. There were shining stars in his eyes as well; pools of dark, expectant emotion that seemed unfathomable. And, of course, a gleam on Gilmore’s lips. Had those always looked so… full? So soft? And what would his beard feel like?

The next word tumbled out of Grog without another thought: “okay.”

Gilmore looked flustered now. Grog wondered if he should have spent less time considering the proposal. Or perhaps he shouldn’t have stared so intently.

“So,” Gilmore asked. “I’ll just… press you against the wall?”

“What? Why can’t I press you?”

“Because…” Gilmore pulled up a classic smirk. “Honestly, I think you’ll like it better this way.”

Grog felt something stir in his chest. It was true that most of the women Gilmore had seen him walk off with tended to be the dominant type—the kinds who had quite literally pinned him to walls. But other images were flickering through his mind now. He voiced them.

“I like the idea of picking you up, though.”

Gilmore let out a startled laugh. Far too loud in the quiet night.

The clatter of boots picked up—sprinting dead toward them. Gilmore started, eyes darting sideways, and stepped quickly into Grog’s space.

 “You can do it next time, you sweet thing,” he murmured, and he grabbed handfuls of the furs pinned at Grog’s throat, tugging him closer. “But we’re running out of time. You sure you’re okay with this?”

Grog could have convinced himself it was the sound of guards approaching. Or the desperation of the moment. Or simple curiosity. But really, it was the gentleness in Gilmore’s voice—the familiar smell of his perfume—the absolute trust he felt in the arms of this strange magical man he never would have met without Vox Machina.

“Yeah,” he nodded.

And Gilmore captured his lips in a passionate kiss.

There was nothing left but _feeling._ Grog wrapped his arms around Gilmore’s waist, and felt his own back hit the alley wall—a shocking amount of strength in the sorcerer’s grip. He grinned automatically, and then tilted into the kiss, beard scratching over beard.

Almost aggressively, Gilmore pressed their bodies tighter, teeth grazing Grog’s lower lip, one large hand releasing the furs to ground itself at the back of Grog’s neck: like an anchor, like being pulled into the heady depths of the finest liquor, like the captivating gleam of the most elegant, well-made sword: a sword Grog would be scared to pick up at first, only to find there could be no better weight in his hands.

His heart began to pound. He could have been hidden away in the cluttered back room of Gilmore’s shop. He could have been beside the warm fire in the guest rooms at Whitestone castle. He could have been standing at the top of a snow-capped mountain, swathed in howling wind. He forgot the guards and the alley and even the moon. His world was all Gilmore _._

Grog moaned. Gilmore pulled him closer, making him bend to chase the kiss. His hands went from gripping Gilmore’s waist to wrapping right around him. He never wanted to let go.

And then Gilmore pulled his lips away.

Grog tried to chase him—his mind still adrift _._

“Grog, my dear man,” Gilmore said. The bass of his voice rumbled through Grog’s chest. “They’re gone.”

 _Who?_ Grog wanted to ask.

But he opened his eyes instead. Saw the curious, puzzled look on Gilmore’s face. The rest of the world came rushing back.

“Right,” he said, quickly releasing his hold on Gilmore’s waist and straightening up. “Of course. Good job, then.”

“Yes,” Gilmore said. He smiled his usual winning smile, but there was something different about it. It seemed like bluster—an overly-casual cover. He gestured toward the alley. “I told you it would work. We better head home.”

“Yeah, of course.” Grog coughed, patted the pocket which held the box they’d stolen—their actual goal for the night, which had been entirely forgotten the moment Gilmore’s lips met his. “Home.”

“We can, um,” Gilmore glanced back at him. He paused a long while before finding his words. “We can talk about this later, you now. I don’t want anything awkward between us, Grog.”

“Yeah, same,” Grog said quickly. “I would never want that.”

Gilmore let out a small, relieved breath.

“Good.” He reached out to pat Grog on his arm. “Very good. Let’s go then.”

It was only later, lying in bed, as Grog repeated the events of the evening a thousand times over in his mind, that something else occurred to him…

_Did Gilmore say there would be a next time?_


End file.
